


Indian Summer

by Lyrastar



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Episode: s01e28 The City on the Edge of Forever, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-06-01
Updated: 2003-06-01
Packaged: 2020-06-29 12:15:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19830028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyrastar/pseuds/Lyrastar
Summary: Trapped in New York City with not enough to do, tensions rise. Mostly sex. Shrug.





	Indian Summer

The air hung surprisingly thick and heavy on this mid-October afternoon. Coils of heat radiated up from the baking concrete of the city streets. It made for an ironic and not terribly welcome contrast to the nipping chill that had met them at arrival just three short days ago.

‘Indian summer’ was the term the locals used, although it had been more than two hundred years since Indians had roamed this island in any number. Nonetheless, year after year this unseasonable heat wave bearing the name returned in late-fall for a visit. In the tiny apartment on the second floor of the brownstone the heat rose and stuck and stayed uninvited.

A paddleblade fan lapped lazily around the ceiling, unwilling or unable to disturb the languid air. Long shadows cast by the late afternoon sun stretched across the room. From the windows the noise and smells of the dirty city street wafted in and infused the room with an ambiance strangely alien to them both. The windowpanes sat perched at the limit of their excursion, yet not even a hint of a breeze stirred the cheap chintz curtains behind the table.

The woefully small supply of electronics that they had so far been able to compile sat waiting on the table. It was Sunday here and their official workday at the mission was over. Today they had the time to pursue their real objective, but had so far managed precious little in the way of materials or progress.

Jim Kirk paced the floor in frustration. Below the waist he wore only his undershorts. The flannel shirt flapped open and unbuttoned with the sleeves pushed up above the elbows. Strands of hair matted to his forehead as he trod the boards. He was going nowhere mighty fast. “How’s it going?” he asked for the third time in an hour.

Spock pushed back from the table. “I can make little more progress with the components that we have here. I must have a diamond prism, a quantity of refined uranium, some laser grade…”

“Spock, Spock, Spock,” Jim interrupted shortly. “I suggest that you revise your plan to use only materials that are a little easier to come by in this culture. Your diamond prism won’t do us any good if we’re stuck in jail for the next twenty years.”

Jim sighed heavily and peeled off his few remaining clothes. “You might as well quit for the day. The shops are all closed and I doubt we’ll find anyone to hire us with this…taboo against work on Sundays. We’re just stuck.”

The twin beds had been pushed together. Jim threw himself down across them. The springs squeaked in protest and the wooden headboard wobbled just a little. He lay spread-eagle and exposed himself, naked, to the impotent ministrations of the fan above. His skin glowed with a sticky sheen, but every line of his body was tight with the pent-up frustration. It was about as close as he has ever been to feeling truly overwhelmed. In this time and place he had nothing. His ship, his crew, his life—everything he had ever known—was now gone as if it had never existed. And at this moment in time there was not a thing in the world he could do about it.

Spock’s uniform boots clicked as he crossed the space to stand beside the beds. He was immaculately dressed in the ‘borrowed’ shirt and jeans, every button buttoned, not a hair out of place. He showed no sign of any discomfiture whatsoever. In many ways Spock seemed more at home in this altered universe than Jim himself felt. Or maybe it was just that Spock felt no more out of place here than he did anywhere else. If they had to stay…

Jim dropped one arm over his eyes. “Spock, what are our chances of making things right again? Finding McCoy in time? Getting home?”

Spock hesitated. “Your current success ratio for objectives during our current tour of duty is 96.37% I predict that that trend will continue into the indefinite future.”

Jim looked up sharply. “That wasn’t what I asked.”

“Captain, I have no more useful data to provide. Of course, there are infinite permutations of time and possibility. When the principles of conventional temporal mechanics are applied to our situation, the chances appear vanishingly slim indeed. Nonetheless, you do seem to have a proclivity for obtaining the unobtainable and I would tend to base any estimate most heavily on that.”

Jim almost smiled. “Attaining the unobtainable. I like that.” He patted the empty space beside him on the bed. “But only 96%?”

Spock sat sideways on the bed. “96.37%,” he corrected. Sensuously, he drew his hand up the smooth, pale skin of Jim’s inner thigh. “But with properly selected goals, it may be possible to increase that ratio.”

Rather to his surprise, Jim pulled away. He said irritably, “Forget it; it’s too damn hot.” Every muscle of his body rippled with unresolved tension. He shifted uncomfortably against the coverlet and spread his legs a little further to the air.

Spock appraised him critically. It was most unlike his captain to wind himself too tightly to be effective. Most unlike him, and most dysfunctional. Spock tried for humor. “There is a saying on my planet, ‘It’s not the heat; it’s it humidity.’”

Jim looked distinctly unamused. He stretched his neck with his hand. “Well, this isn’t your planet. Although if we don’t play our cards right it may end up that way.”

Spock nodded. “As you say, Captain. Nonetheless, you have pronounced our work at a recess but we still have many hours to fill. I offer…a suggestion.” He again reached for Jim’s pendulous sack.

Jim squirmed and rolled over on his side. “Let it drop, Spock. I’m not in the mood. It’s too hot and sticky.” He eyed the denim crotch, which had fallen, perhaps not by coincidence, directly in his line of sight. His face transformed into a devilish grin. Some of the tension seemed to fall away right there. When he spoke again, his voice held more than a glint of the usual lilt. “But if you insist, why don’t you go ahead and let me watch?”

“Watch, Captain? Watch what?”

“Watch you.” His voice dropped. “I want to watch you get off.”

The Vulcan’s eyebrow shot up to his hairline.

Jim continued quite cheerfully now, “It would be…instructional, really; just think of it as teaching a class.” He licked his lips and stared pointedly at the fly. “I want to see how you touch yourself.”

Spock inclined an eyebrow. “If I understand your meaning correctly, as a rule, I do not.”

Jim sighed. “Spock like you said, we have nothing better to do.” He slid over making more room on the bed and cupped his balls. “Why don’t you humor me? Touch yourself.”

There were precious few mortal beings who could deny James Kirk anything at short range. Spock had never been one of them. Swinging his legs up, Spock lay back on the bed. He unbuttoned his jeans and unzipped the fly. He reached inside and began to fondle himself underneath the stiff fabric. The pale shirt worked its way out from the waist and rose up revealing just a ripple of muscular abdomen.

Vulcans. Jim groaned. “Spock, I want to _watch_. I want to see you. Don’t you get it?”

Spock paused his actions. “That would be most undignified, Sir.”

Jim sighed and rubbed his forehead. He rolled over and began to unbutton Spock’s shirt from the bottom up. “One day when we’re stranded in the past on your planet we’ll do it your way, okay? But for now, trust me.” He reached the last one and the shirt fell open exposing the coarse hairs of Spock’s fine chest. “That’s better. Now, for me, pull down your pants. Just a little.”

Spock arched both eyebrows, but pushed the jeans down to mid thigh. His skin was flushed khaki, but still sere and dry. His flaccid sheath sat between his legs, soft and supple.

Jim stroked himself slowly, up and down, up and down, up and down. “That’s better,” he said. He swallowed low in his throat. “Now, touch yourself.”

Spock took his right hand and delicately began to finger the intricate folds of the genital sheath. In a moment the sticky tip began to protrude. It was burnished bright and slick. The sheath receded as the rapidly engorging penis forced it back against the groin.

“Oh yes,” Jim panted. Reflexively he worked himself hard between his legs. Before his eyes Spock’s penis emerged from deep within the fleshy folds of its sheath. It grew and stretched and stood erect. Using just the tips of index finger and thumb, Spock coaxed it to its full and glorious limit. The ropy veins lengthened and throbbed thick and ripe. The head danced and quivered mere inches from Jim’s face, responding to the smallest nuance of each touch. Changing his grip, Spock began to handle himself with a purpose.

The temptation was too great. Jim leaned in towards the delicious vision. He parted his lips and held his tongue in ready anticipation. He closed his eyes and dropped his jaw, but a rough elbow in his chest blocked his way.

“Ughhh!” His eyes flew open. With his right hand Spock continued to stroke his own penis; with his left he caressed the sensitive skin of his inner thigh and used his elbow to keep Jim intentionally at a distance.

Jim readjusted his position and again leaned his mouth over only to find his way firmly blocked by the Vulcan’s arm.

“Spock—”

“I believe you said you wished only to watch.” Apparently unmoved, Spock continued the intercourse of fingers with flesh. “Please bear that in mind.”

Jim squirmed wiggled up and down on the bed but Spock’s iron arm followed his every move, barring him from his goal. “I’ve changed my mind.” Jim flicked his tongue in and out suggestively. “Come on, Spock, just gimme a little taste.”

At that, Spock’s penis released the first hint of the treasure that it held within. Jim lunged to lap it up. His face mouth was held only at most a centimeter away. His moist breath swirled and swathed around the shaft, which oozed again in sympathy. He extended his tongue, but Spock moved first.

Quick as a flash, Spock rolled up from the bed and up onto his feet. Standing erect, he continued to stroke himself for Jim’s enjoyment.

“Spock!” Jim barked emphatically. “Move away from the window!”

Spock glanced behind him and saw nothing untoward. Nonetheless he stepped to the head of the bed and out of the line of sight from the window.

Jim relaxed considerably. “We have to be careful. This was considered sodomy and is very illegal. Like I said, I don’t want to spend the next twenty years in jail.”

Spock abandoned his movements and cocked his head, anthropological concerns apparently becoming foremost in his mind. “Interesting, Captain, on what basis was that consensus reached?”

Jim shook his head. “I have no idea. Can we save this for later?” He beckoned invitingly. “Just…come a little closer, okay?” Jim redoubled the pace of his hand upon his groin and a milky ooze appeared at the tip. He closed his eyes and arched his neck into the pillow. Indistinguishable sounds began to rise up from his throat.

“Fascinating.” Spock reached over to the dresser and pulled the stolen scarf off the top. In one smooth motion he grabbed both of Jim’s wrists and bound them neatly with the fabric.

“Hey!” Jim protested sharply.

“I believe you said that you wanted to watch, Captain, and so watch you will. I regret that these extreme measures must be undertaken, but I am certain that you understand the importance of enforcing discipline, most particularly in extreme circumstances.”

With an efficiency that any Eagle Scout would admire, Spock secured the scarf to a headboard post leaving Jim’s wrists stretched above his head on a short tether. Spock tugged at the scarf, as if to test its hold, and then stood back to admire the scene spread out before him.

Jim twisted and writhed ineffectually against the bonds. Satisfied, Spock moved to within a calculated distance and resumed his strokes.

“Spock,—” Jim bellowed.

“Captain, I suggest you keep you voice down. It was you who pointed out the requisite clandestine nature of this interlude.”

Jim bucked against the bed. He strained his neck and licked fruitlessly at the splendid penis hovering just barely out of reach. “Come on, Spock, please, just let me taste you.”

Again, a thin ooze leaked from the Vulcan’s tip. It dripped onto the Human’s jawline and ran down along his neck. Jim groaned in frustration. He flicked his tongue in vain at the droplet, but got nothing for his efforts.

Spock inched a little closer and lay his turgid penis down into the angle of Jim’s arm and torso. It was already slick with the Vulcan glandular lubricating secretions. Spock began to thrust methodically against the groove of Jim’s body. Steadying himself with his left hand on the headboard, he splayed the fingers of his right and pressed himself more firmly into the folds. With great control, he rubbed himself slowly against the cradle.

The sensation of the richly corded penis rubbing over the supremely delicate skin was rapidly driving Jim to insanity. Near a frenzy, he twisted his head to move his mouth nearer, but the Vulcan kept the tip just out of his grasp. The sultry odor of incipient Vulcan orgasm rose up to his nostrils, stoking the fire even higher. His body tensed, he arced every fiber of his being towards the Vulcan. His muscles contracted squeezing against the penis, clutching it tight.

Startled, Spock came with a gasp spraying sweet semen over Jim’s neck and face.

Jim lapped frantically at the semen, savoring every dab that he could reach. He rocked and bucked relentlessly. The sounds of the cheap mattress springs resounded throughout the room. “Let me loose!” he choked, “Goddammit, Spock, let me come!”

With a beneficent gesture, Spock slipped the scarf over the top of the post. Wrists still fettered by the scarf, Jim grabbed himself and, scraping the coarse fabric against his stomach, pumped his penis just twice before he came all over himself.

“Ahh. Now that’s better,” Jim chuckled as Spock freed his wrists from their restraint. He pulled Spock onto the bed and hugged him tight against his hip. He noted with some regret that the Vulcan penis had already retracted within the folds of its sheath. For a long moment they simply lay together, content and relaxed. Overhead the ceiling fan continued its indolent circles, but the heat no longer seemed quite so oppressive nor the situation quite so bleak.

The hum of coiled tight tension had left body, but still Jim’s fingers twitched restively over Spock’s lean shoulder. “Spock,” he asked, “really, what are our chances of getting out of here?”

“Effectively none, if we remain here in this manner,” Spock answered pragmatically.

“Agreed.” Jim grinned and rolled to a sit. “I heard about an electronics repair shop up on 43rd Street. We could go by and at least take a look in the window.”

Spock wiped himself with the ragged scarf and tugged the jeans back up around his waist. Carefully buttoning the shirt again, he agreed. “That is an eminently practical suggestion, Sir.”

Jim marched over to the water basin on the nightstand. He splashed his face and sponged off the worst of the evidence. “Come on, we’ve got things to do. Let’s get dressed and get out of here.” 


End file.
